Dreaming With a Broken Heart
by streco
Summary: Roger's so lost after April has died, and he's finally starting to wake up. MarkRoger FRIENDSHIP, strictly. Collins and Maureen are there too. Oneshot, songfic.


Dreaming With a Broken Heart  
(Three Days)

_When you're dreaming with a broken heart  
__The waking up is the hardest part_

He was lying on April's bed. Face up, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the patterns that were hidden on it. He hadn't moved for a while—maybe three days or so, he'd lost count. However many days it had been since April's "accident." Roger didn't quite grasp the use of the word "accident;" it clearly had not happened on _accident, _it was more of an _incident_, or maybe even a _discovery_.

But in no way was it an accident, no matter how much they told him that. He refused to believe it. In fact, he refused to do anything productive or healthful except eat the food that Mark would come in and feed him. He didn't have the desire to live anymore; so why couldn't he just kill himself like April had? That seemed to solve a lot, didn't it?

Clearly not, he decided.

There seemed to be a gaping black hole on the left side of his chest, a wound that had taken the place of his heart. It was painful, and it was confusing. He just didn't know who he was anymore—he was afraid. Afraid of what was coming. Collins and Mark and Maureen were trying to be here for him, but it wasn't working.

_You roll out of bed and down on your knees,  
__And for a moment you can hardly breathe_

It's true that he didn't go to get tested. What was the point? He knew he was positive. He'd read her note. So had Mark, so had Maureen, and so had Collins. Poor Collins, he was really trying to help, he was well informed on this subject, but Roger just didn't want to do anything. He wanted to lay on April's bed, inhale her scent, memorize everything about her that he didn't get to know while she was _alive._

He'd found her diary, the diary she'd never allowed him to read, and kept it under the bed where she'd always kept it. Was he supposed to read it? Was he _allowed_ to? He didn't quite understand what you did when someone died; it clearly made sense to respect their wishes, but if they didn't write a will, didn't have time to, didn't desire to, did it mean they cared about the safekeeping of their belongings?

Had he given two shits about what was going on, maybe he would've heaved a sigh, or taken a shower. He would consider crying if his tear ducts would produce anymore water. He snorted—his first sign of life in awhile—and then silenced himself again. Pitiful. He was _incredibly _pitiful, and yet, he couldn't care less.

_Wondering was she really here?  
__Is she standing in my room?_

With sore muscles, Roger closed his eyes, the swirl of blacks and greys and reds beneath his lids nauseating and soothing at the same time. He wished he was oblivious to the world around him, he wished he could lay in that position for evermore. He didn't want to deal with the outside life; it would be so much easier if he could just stay in the house and rot away.

There were a few knocks on the door; a feeble _rap-rap-rap _that Roger probably wouldn't have even heard, had it been a normal week. But everyone in the house knew it wasn't a normal week, and were aware that any louder of a knock would've probably shattered the sense of fragile tranquility that had settled over Roger.

When Roger didn't respond, the door cracked open for a moment, and then closed again, and Roger expected Maureen's delicate footsteps to end at April's bed, and her body to perch itself at the edge. But, instead, nobody entered the room, and her dainty footsteps tittered away from the doorway.

_No, she's not, cause she's gone  
__Gone, gone, gone, gone..._

Why he was doing this, he was unaware of, and he did know that he'd rot away if he sat here forever. So, with newly discovered determination, he pulled himself upward in the bed, getting dizzy from the rapid motion. Taking a deep breath, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and let them dangle there, feeling the dust of the floor on the soles of his feet.

When he went to stand, his legs nearly gave out from under him, so he grabbed onto her side table, supporting himself weakly. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to stand again, and succeeded this time, though his legs did quiver unnaturally.

He took slow, easy steps toward the door, and when he opened it, every eye in the kitchen shot toward him. Mark's jaw opened halfway, Collins froze mid-bite of his cereal, and Maureen stood with the fridge ajar.

Frowning, he avoided their eyes and continued toward his own room, his bones screaming to return to her comfortable mattress.

When he made it to his doorway, he stood there, leaning against the doorframe and resting his head upon it.

_When you're dreaming with a broken heart  
__The giving up is the hardest part_

He wasn't sure what he was doing—why he was spending all this time in her room, going through her old things, staring at pictures of her, reading the songs she'd written for their band, obsessing over everything she owned. Maybe he figured he'd will her back alive—like her dead body in the morgue would wake up, and she'd bang on it and someone would let her out. Maybe part of him _did _believe it'd happen... he wasn't entirely sure of what he believed in anymore.

As he stood there, he figured that the sudden motion must've reawakened his tear ducts, because at that moment his recently stable body collapsed against the doorframe, and his body succumbed to the sobs that he'd thought had vacated his body.

In an instant, Maureen had hurried next to him and enveloped him in a hug, whispering soothing words in his ear."It's okay, Roger, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay," she kept repeating, over and over, but he knew it _wasn't _okay, was he the only one who understood that?

Collins and Mark appeared around him, and though he couldn't see their faces through Maureen's brown locks, he knew they looked sympathetic. Collins' big hand was on his back, rubbing circles in it.

When he saw through Maureen's curls, his eye contact met Mark's, who was standing away from the scene, not filming, but just observing. His face was stone cold, expressionless, numb. Roger was confused at this—wasn't Mark his friend? Had they argued? Why was Mark detaching when Roger needed him?

_She takes you in with your crying eyes  
__Then all at once you have to say goodbye_

Detaching was just Mark's way, he decided, though he didn't add much thought to that. Instead, he focused on Maureen, holding him tight, as if trying to squeeze the agony out of him. It wasn't working, wasn't helping, either, but it still made him feel like he had someone, if not Mark, then Mo.

Collins' hand had stopped circling and was now just resting on his warm back, damp from sweat. "You okay, Rog?" he asked, his voice husky but soft in Roger's ear.

"No," Roger exhaled, his voice a terrified, pained undertone to the silence that had taken over the building at once. What time was it? His eyes darted to the clock in the corner of the room. One AM.

_Wondering, could you stay, my love?  
__Will you wake up by my side?_

"She's not in there, Roger," Mark's voice was even with each syllable he spoke. "She's not in your room." His blue eyed gaze was calm, but at the same time wicked, it seemed. He still lacked emotion in his pallidexpression. "She's not anywhere, Roger, and it doesn't matter if you look for her." His voice was quieter in the final statement, more sensitive, as if he knew it was going to hurt Roger more.

Roger blinked a few times, his sobs coming to a stop, though the tears continued to fall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Collins giving Mark an angered glance, and Maureen was staring wide-eyed him.

"M-Mark—" Roger began, his voice cracked, quiet. It sounded alien to his own ears—he hadn't spoken in three days—and when he did speak, it pained his heart. He wasn't sure why, but it was definitely there.

"Roger," Mark countered, his voice equally as quiet as the other man's.

There was a silence.

"Roger, you can't do anything about it," Mark whispered.

"Mark, are you trying to _help?_" Maureen challenged, her eyes turned into slits. "This is _not _the time to try reverse psychology, okay? We need to be here for him _right now_, and _later _you can try to make it all better. We need to treat the wound before we can start to heal it, alright?" Her voice had venom dripping from it as she fought her boyfriend with what Roger thought was interesting logic.

_No, she can't, cause she's gone,  
__Gone, gone, gone, gone..._

"Maureen, I've known Roger for a long time—"

"And I _haven't?_"

"Not as long as I have," Mark reminded her. "Just... please, Mo."

"Can you guys not talk about me like I'm not here?" Roger wondered aloud, breaking away from Maureen and rolling Collins' hand off of his back. "I've heard everything you've said. It might not seem like I'm here, but I _am_." He tried to sound potent, but his vocal expression lacked the power required to sound effective.

"Roger... you haven't exactly been here," Collins informed him, and the way he looked at Roger was a way you might look at a confused four-year-old. "We've... we've come into her room many times, tried to talk to you, but you haven't responded. Sometimes you're there, sometimes you're not. These past two nights, we can hear you rolling over in your bed, screaming... but when we go into the room, you don't register that we're there. You keep thinking Maureen is... April," he added her name gently.

Roger blinked, trying to clear his head and remember this. His memory was damaged, that was true—he couldn't remember the past three days clearly, and maybe they were right.

_Now do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?  
__Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?  
__Baby, won't you get them if I did?_

"Are... are you _sure?_" he asked, his tone childish and young, afraid. Tears sprang to his eyes once again, and he looked down at the musty floor of the loft. "I'm sorry," he apologized, beginning to sob again. "I'm sorry she killed herself, I'm sorry I have AIDS, I'm sorry I'm acting this way... I can't help it, I don't know what else to do, I don't know where to go, what to do with myself... I just wish someone could under_stand_," he weeped, and leant against the doorframe.

Out of nowhere, Mark wrapped his arms around Roger, holding him tight, doing his best to comfort his friend.

_No, you won't, cause you're gone,  
__Gone, gone, gone, gone..._

With his best friend's arms around him, Roger understood that April was dead, he realized that she was never going to return... that she'd chosen to end her life, only creating a coward out of her memory, afraid to face a disease-infected life.

"Mark, I love you," Roger cried into his best friend's shoulder, his heart aching.

"I love you, too, Roger," Mark echoed, and held on tighter.

_When you're dreaming with a broken heart  
__The waking up is the hardest part_

**A/N:** I just discovered how _freaking _amazing John Mayer is. He is an incredible songwriter, and I love his music! And this song is so sad, and I was playing it while I was writing this and it was just incredibly depressing.

Alright, here's a note: This is NOT MR romance! NO! Best friends. They are _best friends_. They love each other, they are not _in _love.

The significance of the (Three Days) beneath the title means that Three Days is an alternate name for this fic, simply because I repeat that phrase enough times for it to be etched into your memory.

Gracias to Rajah, for confirming Mark's acts of being numb. Woot! Haha.

No flames please :(

–Steph.


End file.
